


Now He Knows

by hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles)



Series: Tumbling Hudders [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Love Confessions, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:04:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5187977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddersandhiddles/pseuds/hudders-and-hiddles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>John had thought the words out loud in his head so many times. He had often imagined what it would be like to say them for the first time. What it would be like to declare them in a quiet moment of daring, the two of them alone in the sitting room with a fire crackling gently, perhaps a strain of Tchaikovsky floating through the air between them. What it would be like to murmur them over and over along smooth, pale skin as they undressed one another for the first time. What it would be like to curl together sleepy and satisfied and whisper it against those gorgeous lips before they fell asleep in each other’s arms. The first time he actually says it, it’s entirely by accident.</i><br/> </p>
<p>John confesses by accident. Lovely, slow burn smut ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now He Knows

**Author's Note:**

> This comes from my expanding collection of tumblr ficlets. It has therefore not been beta'ed or Britpicked.
> 
> It was written as kind of a choose-your-own-adventure style story, where I would write a piece and then let my followers choose what would happen next. If it seems at all disjointed, that's probably why.

John had thought the words out loud in his head so many times. He had often imagined what it would be like to say them for the first time. What it would be like to declare them in a quiet moment of daring, the two of them alone in the sitting room with a fire crackling gently, perhaps a strain of Tchaikovsky floating through the air between them. What it would be like to murmur them over and over along smooth, pale skin as they undressed one another for the first time. What it would be like to curl together sleepy and satisfied and whisper it against those gorgeous lips before they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

The first time he actually says it, it’s entirely by accident. They’re on their way home from a case, one of the better ones they’ve had in months.  _Definitely one for the blog_ , John thinks. Sherlock walks him through the solution again, and John marvels at his mind. Even after all this time, it still seems beautiful and new and exciting every time Sherlock does what he does. When Sherlock’s done, John shakes his head and smiles broadly. “Brilliant. You are astounding.”  _Christ, I love you_.

Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath and his eyes go wide, and only then does John realize he said that last bit out loud.  _Fuck fuck fuck_. “I…” How in the hell is he going to explain this away? He can feel the heat flushing his face as he stammers and tries to think of an excuse for his words. And then Sherlock is moving and John has a split-second of worry that he’s actually going to jump from a moving cab to flee from this. But instead Sherlock is moving toward him, not away, and that doesn’t make any sense. Sherlock’s mouth crashes against his, his lips moving inexpertly against John’s, but they’re warm and moist and, most importantly, eager, and that thought snaps John out of his spiraling panic. He kisses back with fervor, licking between Sherlock’s parted lips, tasting the tiny pants of breath escaping him, nipping at his plump lower lip and swallowing down the moan that tries to escape Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock squeezes closer to him, as he slides a hand up John’s thigh. Lost in the kiss, John barely remembers that they’re in the back of a taxi, and while he very much wants this, there’s that little part of him that also screams that it is perhaps not the best idea. Sherlock’s hand snakes higher, and when his fingers brush against John’s growing erection, John’s head falls back against the seat. Sherlock takes advantage of the opportunity to trail kisses down his neck instead, alternating small licks with light scrapes of teeth and sucking kisses not quite hard enough to bruise.  _Cab–we should probably stop_ , John reminds himself, but the sensation is too good, the feeling of that mouth on his skin and those fingers rubbing against his cock through the thick fabric of his jeans.

John catches Sherlock’s hand with his own just as it reaches the button on his trousers. “Wait. Sherlock, wait,” he pants.

“Don’t want to wait,” Sherlock says between kisses. “Done enough waiting.”

He tries to free his hand from John’s grasp, but John only holds on tighter and wriggles away from Sherlock’s distracting mouth. Catching Sherlock’s eyes, John pulls Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kisses each finger gently, trying to slow the pace down. “Just wait. Do you really want to take this any further in the back of a random cab?” Sherlock stills and closes his eyes as John bends to his neck and kisses the pulse point just below his ear, feeling the beat quicken beneath his touch. “Wouldn’t you rather I take you back home and undress you slowly?” He pulls the lobe of Sherlock’s ear between his lips and sucks lightly. “Take my time kissing every inch of you? Let you kiss every inch of me?” A scrape of teeth along Sherlock’s jaw. “Slide down to my knees and take your cock in my mouth, slowly sucking you all the way down?”

Sherlock’s broken moan makes John pull back and take in the sight before him. His eyes are squeezed shut tight, a flush has crept along his neck and cheeks turning his pale skin beautifully pink, and he’s worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. He looks like he’s on the verge of coming right here just from John’s words, and that thought sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through John’s veins. If Sherlock is this sensitive to just his words, he can only imagine how glorious it will be to actually touch him. As much as he wants to do that right here, he has to rein himself in if he’s going to have any chance of making it home without doing something indecent. 

“Would you like that?” he asks, and Sherlock nods desperately, not daring to open his eyes. John kisses him softly, coaxing his teeth away from his bottom lip with light swipes of his tongue. “Good. Because I want that and so much more,” he whispers. “I want all of you, Sherlock.” A light kiss on one fine cheekbone. “Which means we have to wait till we get home.” He lets Sherlock’s hand go and slides as far away as he can, putting space between them so that he isn’t tempted to continue. He doesn’t dare look at Sherlock either, so he watches London pass by outside the window, a small grin on his lips as he listens to the sound of Sherlock trying to get his breathing under control.

By the time they reach Baker Street, John has managed to calm himself enough to pay for the cab ride and unlock the front door with steady hands. He half expects Sherlock to attack him as soon as the door is closed again, but he doesn’t; instead they walk up the stairs in silence. They hang their coats and scarves on the hooks on the wall, the air between them heavy with uncertainty. The desire is still there, but it doesn’t burn hot and fast as it had in the cab, turned down to a simmer just below the surface of their nervousness. Now that they have room to think, they’re both realizing the enormity of what’s happening between them, and neither seems to know quite how to proceed.

John glances at Sherlock to find that his hands are still fisted into his coat where he’s hung it on the wall, his gaze aimed at the floor but his look far away.  _You can do this_ , John tells himself.  _He didn’t push you away in the cab. You can do this._  He reaches for Sherlock’s chin and gently tugs his face toward him. “Hey,” he says softly, stepping close and looking up into those familiar blue-green eyes. “You okay?” Sherlock swallows thickly and nods just once, though he still looks beyond nervous. “Are you sure? Because we don’t have to… do… _anything_ , if you don’t want to. I mean, all that in the cab, that doesn’t…”

“No,” Sherlock cuts in. “No, I… I want… that, but it’s just…” His cheeks flush, and John can’t resist cupping one in his hand, feeling the warmth burn against his skin. “I don’t… I’ve never…”

_Oh_.

He presses up on his toes until his lips meet Sherlock’s, the kiss soft and sweet and entirely unlike those they shared in the cab. Their lips slide together slow and sensuous, barely parted, just enough to let the tips of their tongues peek out to tease at each other. John tangles the fingers of both hands in Sherlock’s hair, lightly running his nails across Sherlock’s scalp, and he feels rather than hears Sherlock’s tiny moan.

John pulls back just enough to look into Sherlock’s eyes. “It’s all fine. We’ll go slow, okay?” In response, Sherlock presses their lips together again, and John deepens the kiss, licking inside Sherlock’s mouth with tender strokes of his tongue, coaxing Sherlock to respond in kind, twirling their tongues together until they’re both breathless. When they finally break apart, John asks, “Bedroom?” and when Sherlock nods, he links their fingers together and pulls Sherlock through the kitchen and down the hall.

John closes the door behind them and guides Sherlock to stand by the bed. He lifts the hand that’s clasped in his and holds it between them as he unbuttons the cuff of Sherlock’s shirt, brushing his mouth against Sherlock’s wrist when he’s done before repeating it with the other wrist. He presses another soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips and reaches for the top button of his shirt. The button slips through the hole and exposes a widening vee of creamy skin, and John bends forward to kiss it. He slips the next button free and traces his kisses farther down to greet the newly-exposed patch of skin. With each new button undone, John’s mouth moves lower, until he can plant a kiss just below Sherlock’s belly button and then tug the bottom of Sherlock’s shirt free of his trousers. His hands glide back up over the lean muscles of Sherlock’s stomach, the gentle rise of his ribs, the smooth planes of his chest, to push the fabric from his shoulders and send it fluttering to the floor.

Taking a small step back to take in the sight before him, John looks Sherlock over appreciatively, unable to help the way his lips quirk into a smile. “Gorgeous,” he whispers, stepping forward again to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s collarbone. “Stunning.” A kiss to the opposite side. “Exquisite.” A kiss to the pink patch blooming in the center of Sherlock’s chest under John’s praise. “The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.” John captures Sherlock’s mouth again to show him the conviction of his words.

John pulls back and tugs at the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. “Okay if these come off now?” He hooks his index fingers just inside and sweeps his fingernails back and forth in anticipation, sending a shiver down Sherlock’s spine as he breathes  _yes_. John slides the button free and pulls the zip down, revealing the black fabric of Sherlock’s pants. He drops to his knees and Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath, and John has to bite back a chuckle. His goal isn’t what Sherlock expects though, and he bends down to untie one of Sherlock’s shoes, wriggling his foot free and slipping off his sock. Then he turns and does the same with the other.

Now that Sherlock is shoeless and shirtless, John doesn’t want to wait any longer to get him properly naked, but he knows that he promised Sherlock they’d go slowly and so he restrains himself from pulling both his trousers and pants down in one swift go. Instead he slips his hands into the open waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, sliding to his sides and then further around before pushing the fabric down, the palms of his hands gliding over Sherlock’s plump arse before tracing back to the sides of his hips to push the fabric down, past his thighs, past his knees, past his calves. Sherlock carefully steps out of them, and John’s gaze rakes back up his thin but sturdy calves, his positively delicious thighs, to settle on the bulge between his legs, a damp spot already forming on the fabric of his pants.

John reminds himself to go slow, so he starts at Sherlock’s knee, planting a wet kiss on the inside of Sherlock’s right knee while his fingers trail up the outside of each leg. As his lips trace higher, so do his hands. Every few inches he nips at Sherlock’s skin instead, delighting in the tiny whimper it draws from his throat. When he reaches the crease where Sherlock’s leg meets his groin, he pulls away and starts again on the other leg. By the time he reaches the top again, Sherlock is trembling slightly under his touch. After one final kiss to his thigh, John runs his nose in and up, tracing the tip lightly over Sherlock’s bollocks and up the length of his cock, pausing at the end to press a kiss against the tip through the thin fabric.

“John,” Sherlock breathes, and John looks up at him, at the flush that has now mottled his skin from belly to neck, at the heave of his chest as he tries to suck in cooling breaths, at the slick of sweat upon his brow, loving that he gets to be the first and only one to see Sherlock this way. Sherlock’s eyes are heavy-lidded, drooping closed as he whispers, “Please.” It’s John’s turn to shudder, the single word sending shivers of desire rattling down his spine. He hooks his fingers into the elastic at Sherlock’s waist and pulls his pants carefully down to the floor.

After guiding Sherlock’s feet carefully out of the fabric and back to the floor, John sits back on his heels and scans up the long line of Sherlock’s body to his cock, hard and flushed and curving ever so slightly to the right, jutting out of a nest of dark auburn curls. On reflex, John’s tongue darts out to wet his lips at the sight about which he’s long fantasized. His eyes track higher, catching and holding Sherlock’s gaze as he presses up on his knees, raising up until his mouth is even with the leaking tip of Sherlock’s cock. He licks his lips again and leans in, stopping just far enough away that Sherlock’s involuntary sway forward doesn’t quite bring them into contact. John parts his lips and lets his breath dance across Sherlock’s skin, just a tease of what he knows Sherlock wants.

Sherlock’s eyes burn into his. “Please,” he whispers again. His eyes still locked on Sherlock’s, John holds him steady with a hand on each hip and licks one broad stripe across the head with the flat of his tongue. Sherlock’s eyes pop wide and then squeeze closed, his nostrils flaring as he fights to keep his breathing steady. John slides his lips around Sherlock then, inching down his shaft and then sliding back to the tip again, then forward a little more and back again, letting each slow bob of his head bring Sherlock farther into his mouth. When he manages as far as he can go, he pauses and lifts his eyes toward Sherlock’s again, savoring the weight of him on his tongue, the fullness in his mouth, as he waits. After several still seconds, Sherlock finally relaxes his brow and opens his eyes, immediately moaning at the sight of his cock in John’s mouth. John can feel and taste a fresh burst of pre-come on the back of his tongue and barely manages not to choke out a groan of his own in response. Making sure Sherlock is still watching, he slides his lips up and down again, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s hips and pulling a little in rhythm with the movements of his mouth, beginning to hollow his cheeks just a bit on each draw back and swirling his tongue around the head every few strokes.

“St-stop. John,” Sherlock pants. “St-oh-stop.” John immediately slides his mouth free with a soft, wet pop and looks up at Sherlock. He doesn’t need to ask why. Sherlock’s chest is heaving as if he’s run a marathon and his fists are clenched tight at his sides.  _Too close_. John chastises himself for getting carried away, but he had loved the feeling of Sherlock in his mouth, of soft skin over steel sliding against his tongue. It’s something he’d long imagined, and the reality of it is better than he had thought possible.

Releasing Sherlock’s hips, he pushes himself to standing, careful not to touch Sherlock’s cock as he leans up and plants a gentle kiss on those gorgeous lips. He presses Sherlock back and guides him to sit on the edge of the bed, bending to kiss him again as he starts to tug up on the hem of his jumper. They part long enough for John to pull the jumper over his head before their lips meet again, John pulling the buttons on his shirt free as they kiss and kiss again. Sherlock’s hands slide past the fabric and against his chest, and John pulls back so that Sherlock can push the shirt from his shoulders. 

He watches as Sherlock’s eyes immediately find his scar, one of the few things he’s always kept carefully hidden from that knowing gaze, but instead of lingering, Sherlock leans forward and trails kisses down John’s chest and across his ribs as his fingers tug at John’s belt buckle and the button on his trousers, growling in frustration and nipping at the skin on John’s belly when the button doesn’t cooperate. John takes over, pulling it free and sliding down his zip, before they both tug at his trousers and pants while he toes off his shoes, the urge for both of them to be naked becoming more and more imperative by the second. Shoes and socks and two pairs of hands and Sherlock’s unwillingness to stop kissing every inch of John he can reach complicates their task, but John finally manages to step free of his pants and all but collapse into the bed with Sherlock. They kiss and roll and run hands over bare skin, legs twining, fingers carding through hair, mouths seeking out necks and ears and jaws and collarbones, until eventually they find their heads on pillows, their fronts pressed together from chest to thighs, hips thrusting gently forward, cocks dragging deliciously against each other’s skin, as they breathe each other in.

The need for more builds, so with a kiss, John rolls Sherlock to his back and slips between his legs, sitting back for just a moment to appreciate the sight of Sherlock laid out before him, sweat-slick, skin pinkened, his hair a wild, dark halo against the cool white of the pillow. It’s a vision straight out of one of John’s greatest fantasies, and he almost has to pinch himself to be sure he hasn’t actually slipped into a dream. To be here in Sherlock’s bed, to have somehow, after all this time, after all their mistakes and missteps and missed chances, ended up here, finally together, is some enormous kind of miracle.

Overcome by the depth of his love for this man, John bends down again, bracing himself on one hand and cupping Sherlock’s cheek with the other, brushing their mouths together sweetly. He pulls back just enough between kisses to whisper “I love you” against Sherlock’s lips.

“I love you,” Sherlock breathes in reply, and John’s mouth twitches into a smile against his. “I love you. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I love you.” He continues his litany between soft kisses until John slides his tongue between Sherlock’s lips and silences him, letting his hand drift to Sherlock’s nape to pull him deeper into the kiss, not relenting until they’re both gasping, their hips starting to rock against each other again.

Sherlock moans his name, low and dark and full of need, and the sound goes straight to John’s core, a fiery wave of want crashing through him. He slides down Sherlock’s body to take him into his mouth again, sucking him until he’s wet and writhing, and then settling properly between his thighs again. John gives an experimental thrust and revels in the feel of his cock sliding along Sherlock’s, as Sherlock keens beneath him. He tugs on one bony knee, and Sherlock takes the hint and wraps his legs around John’s waist and squeezes, pressing them tight together as John begins to thrust in earnest. They kiss messily, their mouths open and pliant and wet against each other. With every roll of John’s hips, Sherlock rocks up to meet him, the heat pooling in the base of John’s spine, coiling tight and tense as the pleasure builds. Sherlock’s moans grow more desperate, his head falling back, exposing the long line of his neck, and John can’t resist sucking a kiss against the spot where it meets his shoulder.

“That’s it, love,” John pants, his thrusts quickening. “Gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous.” His rhythm starts to falter as he gets close, but he manages to keep hold of the last of his control, wanting to see Sherlock come apart beneath him. Sherlock’s legs squeeze him tighter as his tension peaks. “Come for me, Sherlock. Please. Come for me.”

“Johnnnnnn.” Sherlock’s back arches off the bed as he comes, spurting thick and wet across his belly before collapsing back down bonelessly into the mattress, his face gone blissfully slack. The last of John’s resolve snaps with Sherlock’s orgasm; half a dozen more thrusts and he crashes over the edge, too, Sherlock’s name on his lips, their come mixing together between them as he collapses against Sherlock’s chest. Long arms come up to hold him as they both come down, the steady beat of Sherlock’s heart pounding against John’s chest, their mouths meeting in lazy kisses.

Eventually John will get up to grab a wet flannel and clean them up a bit. They’ll curl against each other under the blankets and trade soft kisses until they fall asleep, and they’ll wake up somehow wrapped even farther around each other. And for the first time in a long time, John won’t dream of what it might be like to say those three little words to Sherlock. He doesn’t have to–now he knows.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr as [hudders-and-hiddles](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com).


End file.
